I have sealed myself in | Laminated all
of my skin | Cellotaped my world in bits |
I must embrace paralysis
 
Only in you do we see ourselves | Only in
you can we imagine an end | So sick and so
tired of being 4 real | Only the fiction still
has the appeal
 
Builders of routines | It makes me safe and
clean | It crucifies parts of me | But never
seems to make me bleed
 
Only in you do we see ourselves | Only in
you can we imagine an end | So sick and so
tired of being 4 real | Only the fiction still
has the appeal
 
How I hate middle age | In between
acceptance and rage | Democracy sure
made a fool out of me | But I am the builder
of routines